


Nova's Wings

by chewysugar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angel Wings, Angst, Castiel and Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Destiel - Freeform, Disfigurement, Domestic Fluff, Eyepatch, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Fallen Angels, Fluff, Healing, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Kissing, Love, M/M, Magic, Magical Creatures, No Smut, Pie, Protective Dean Winchester, Scarred Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: A tormented exile. A fallen angel. A bedtime story for the ages.





	1. The Star

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a year. And by that I mean that I started it, stopped doing it for a solid ten months, and then came back for reasons. 
> 
> This is meant to be nothing more or less than a cute little AU shipping fic!

On a cold winter’s night, in a place so far away it may well not have been anywhere at all, an angel fell from Heaven.

Back in that time, Earth, Heaven and everything in between and around were closer together than they are now. Beings like ghosts, wolfmen and serpents of the sea were still observed with terrified reverence by humans.

So there ought not to have been anything so extraordinary about an angel tumbling from the sky; only it wasn’t proper. Heaven was a grander paradise back then, and the hosts of God had few reasons to leave the realm of everlasting peace.

But this angel hadn’t left. He had fallen: plucked from the sky by a vengeful demon’s claws. He burned as he tumbled through the expanse of firmament, cloud, and sky. Fire seared his skin, and scorched his beautiful wings. So great was his pain that he could not scream—only fall, limp and in agony.

From the ground, eyes of every animal, human and creature glimpsed the white orb of fire as it descended. Many took it for a star, and so made a wish, never knowing that their hopes were pinned on a being in torment.

One pair of eyes did not notice the celestial descent. These eyes were set into the face of Wynn, and as it had been such time since they’d look on anything with interest, they took no heed of the silver-white sphere as it cut through the night sky.

Wynn’s immense feet crunched through the snow-covered ground. Winter held the Wildlands where Wynn made his home in a tight embrace: snow capped the mountains and blanketed the valleys, and would likely do so until the end of spring.

Wynn wouldn’t have cared had he been given all the precious jewels and regal titles in the world. He thought of snow and cold as the only things that mirrored how he felt within. Winter was silent, especially out in the Wildlands where only the most skilled of hunters and trappers dared venture.

And as Wynn's presence in these parts had long since been made known, none dared bother him even on the warmest, clearest summer’s day. They feared the fire of his rumored wrath; they reviled him for his life killing in the name of the King. If these deeds weren’t enough to keep the wide world at bay, then Wynn’s appearance proved more than sufficient.

He had been handsome once. Roguishly handsome, given the amount of broken hearts he’d left in the wake of those younger days. Now, Wynn possessed all the scars and signs of a life steeped in bloodshed and torture.

One leg stood at an angle, leaving him with a pronounced limp. In the time since he’d settled in the Wildlands, his hair had grown into a wild, leonine mass. Despite his young age, silver streaks threaded the ravages of time through both wild, tawny hair and his thick beard. Lips that had once brought delight to many were now scarred permanently through, so badly to one side that his whole mouth appeared ever-lopsided and scowling. His nose had been broken in three places, and one of his big, green eyes had been gouged out during a particularly brutal session of torture. This eye he kept covered for the sake of cleanliness, not vanity; again, not a soul lived within neighborly distance of Wynn’s cabin in the Wildlands. Even if anyone had, they’d find no welcome in Wynn’s home.

Wynn had learned to lean into the solitude. Despite his once boisterous life, he’d lived so long with loneliness, cold, scars and the pain in his heart that he trusted nothing else.

Except, of course, his faithful mare.

Wynn limped through the snow to where he’d tethered his mount. Another night’s good hunting: the pack of rabbits slung over Wynn’s shoulder would last him a good week if he made sure to be wise with them.

Pala, his horse, snuffled. Mist puffed from the end of her sleek, black muzzle. She regarded Wynn patiently as he affixed the rabbits to the pack on her saddle.

Wynn stroked Pala’s smooth flank, relieved to be reunited with her. Black as a raven and tall as an ox, she’d followed him from the city when he’d been made an exile. Wynn sometimes spent a whole day brushing Pala’s coat and untangling her mane and tail. She was one reminder of his past that he held onto with out grudge or remorse. 

As Wynn made to untether the bridle from, a nearby tree, Pala started, and whinnied.

Wynn frowned, and that was when he finally glimpsed what all throughout the land had seen.

An orb as luminous as the moon plummeted earthwards—not a mile away from where Wynn and Pala stood. Silver light illuminated the still, silent pines. Shadows swept across the snow. A moment later, the earth shook as, with an almighty crash, the ball of fire came to land.

Before Wynn could think what to do, Pala pulled away from him and raced away into the trees. Wynn’s heart lurched at the thought of losing his faithful friend. He imagined Pala lost among the trees, and for a moment the need to cry choked his throat.

But he had no time, or patience, for tears. As a small boy, he’d learned that a river of tears did little for that which had been lost. He’d cried for days when his mother had been killed. All it had gotten him were rebukes from his father and a command to put his infant brother first.

“Get back here,” Wynn shouted. He limped hurriedly in pursuit of Pala. Aching needles ratcheted up his leg. But he’d experienced far worse pain.

Pala continued to whinny and neigh ahead of her master. Wynn feared that she would be attacked by one of the many imps that dwelt in the woods after nightfall.

Just as the pain and worry grew to an unbearable pitch, the trees cleared. Wynn stumbled onto clear, cracked earth. Odd, given that he knew the woods to stretch for leagues in this direction.

He found himself gazing upon a vast, circular sphere of bare rock; every tree had been felled and burned to stumps.

Soft, black leaves floated in the air. One of them brushed against Wynn’s face. He narrowed his good eye and made to brush the leaf away. His finger touched something soft as down. Wynn held the thing to his face and saw that neither it nor the other gently falling things were leaves at all.

They were black feathers.

Pala’s hooves clacked slowly across the bare earth. By the light of the moon overhead, Wynn saw something shift in the exact middle of the ground.

He froze, nearly stumbling on his crippled leg. Pala, unafraid, approached the form huddled in the center of the cracked and steaming ground. She lowered her head and, much to Wynn’s surprise, began licking something on the baking rock.

“Don’t.” Wynn knew far too well what kinds of horrors could descend from the sky, or from deep down below. He thought of his little brother, Samel; the echo of knife cracking though bone stirred in his recollection, and he grit his teeth to stem the threat of emotion.

A soft groan broke the silence of the clearing. Pala ceased cleansing the thing at her feet. Wynn took another step closer, and, at last, saw what it was that had broken the earth.

Or rather, who had _fallen_ to the earth.

The man sat up as if every inch of his skin hurt. Dark hair swept over his forehead. His eyes, blue as precious sapphire, burned like flame. Naked, he huddled in the middle of the wreckage, quaking like a mouse.

Pala let out a soft nicker of sympathy. Once more she bent her head. The stranger yelped as he felt the horse’s nose against him; but after a moment, he relaxed, and began to softly stroke Pala’s muzzle with a trembling hand.

Wynn surprised himself by not wanting to leave this pitiful creature alone and afraid. The man’s pathetic brokenness stirred a sympathy in Wynn’s soul long-since frozen over. The stranger from the heavens had his face buried in Pala’s coat; his body quaked with sobs. Wynn felt himself reminded of his own life: how he’d spent many a solitary night flogged by his own desolation; how, in those first wretched weeks, he’d tried to kindle the hope that he would be allowed to return to the world some day.

He cleared his throat. The strange man started, and stared at him. Wynn let out a soft curse at the sight of those ethereal blue eyes holding his gaze.

The stranger got shakily to his feet, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. Tears gathered in his eyes, not to Wynn’s great shock. Whatever had happened to this man had clearly been traumatic.

“Here,” Wynn said. He undid his own great, fur cloak, one he’d made from the coat of an immense bear. Wynn had come across the poor brute impaled on a crude pike trap during his first summer in the Wildlands. Killing the creature had been a knife to Wynn’s already battered soul, but he hadn’t been able to stand by and let it suffer to death. It had given him meat, claws to fashion into crude utensils, and, most useful of all, this thick mantle.

He slowly closed the distance between himself and the shaking, crying stranger.

As he made to drape the cloak over the man’s shoulders, he caught a trace of the most extraordinary scent of candle wax. At the same time, the back of his hand brushed against some kind of bony stump at the juncture between the stranger’s shoulder blade and his spine.

Wynn gasped.

He hadn’t been away from society so long that he’d forgotten the tales of the old graybeards and dames: surround any home with sweet cicely to ward off werewolves; drink from the spot where two streams meet and you’ll be doomed to end up lost at sea; and one could discern heavenly beings from any other entity by the smell of plain melted candle wax.

Wynn hesitated for only a moment. He processed all his senses had taken in—the white light from the sky the gently falling black feathers, and those piercing blue eyes. Taking great care, he draped the cloak around the angel, glancing at the being’s back as he did so.

There were, indeed, two charred and bloody stumps jutting from his skin.

“Your wings,” Wynn said softly. The angel had fallen, long and far. That much was perfectly clear.

The angel hung his head. The night breeze lifted his dark hair, but with the thick fur covering him, he did not feel the chill.

It seemed as if the battered creature would topple over. Carefully, so as not to touch the remains of his wings, Wynn steadied him with one sturdy arm.

At first the angel attempted to lean most of his weight into Wynn. Prickly pain shut up Wynn’s leg; he hissed but prepared to bear the brunt of it until he got the angel back to his cabin.

But the angel had heard Wynn’s brief murmur of pain. He looked down, a frown creasing his face.

“You’re hurt,” he said. He had a deep, resonant voice that was still oddly gentle, like the pealing of a church bell.

Wynn gritted his teeth, and tugged at Pala’s reins. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I’ve lived with it long enough. To be honest, I barely feel it anymore.” As he said this, he felt yet another piercing sensation, as if a dagger had been shoved into his leg.

The angel sagged forward, his face pressed into the warmth of Pala’s neck. Wynn felt a soft hand on the side of his leg, brushing him with the tenderest touch.

Heat coursed through his old injury like a rush of water. Wynn’s breath stilted, and he paused in his tracks, wondering what in the world the angel had done.

When the curious feeling passed, Wynn waited for the uncomfortable pain to return; but it did not. He frowned, and tested the weight of his body. No burning or prickling or stabbing. Whatever had been wrong with his leg all these years had been utterly healed by the angel’s touch. 

Wynn stared, eyes wide, at the fur-cloaked figure leaning against Pala’s flank. It was on the tip of his tongue to question the angel, but he thought better of it. What mattered most now was getting them both indoors and rested as soon as possible.

With strength he had not had in quite some time, Wynn lifted the angel onto Pala’s back. He anticipated discomfort, but felt none. He wondered if he would ever feel it again, and dared not get his hopes up.

The angel collapsed, all but face first, onto Pala’s back. The gentle rise and fall of his chest told Wynn that he’d fallen asleep.

Wynn wiggled his toes, hidden by thick moose-hide boots. Many questions whirled around his mind. But the night had only just begun. It was well below the temperature for man or beast to be out the length of time he and Pala had been.

And he had to get this fallen being somewhere warm and safe. Unlike Wynn, he hadn’t done anything to deserve being out in the unforgiving Wildlands.

Wynn tugged at Pala’s reins once more. Together, he, the horse and the angel, trudged through the silent, snowy night, back to the only place like home that Wynn knew.


	2. The Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wynn takes his newfound angel home, and is tasked with bestowing a name on him.

Without really making a concerted effort in the cause, Wynn’s home had become his sanctuary in the last many years. It had started as an abandoned, one-room shack nestled in a glade; and over the course of his first summer and autumn, Wynn had added onto it.

The arduous task had been well worth it, and now that he could suddenly walk like any other man, the sight of home didn’t quite fill him with typical resentment.

Wynn led Pala into the stabled he’d built to one side of the house. She obediently knelt on the fresh, dry hay, allowing Wynn easier access to the still-sleeping angel on her back. The journey from the forest hadn’t been easy or brief by any means, and Pala dozed off the second Wynn scooped the angel into his arms.

“Good girl,” he said to the mare. He’d make sure to give her something good to eat in the morning for bearing the brunt of the angel’s weight.

But first, he had to make sure that the angel rested comfortably. Even through the thick cover of bear fur, Wynn could feel the bony projections of the angel’s missing wings.

He must have suffered unendurable pain during his fall.

Wynn carried the angel through the front hall that had once been the only room in the cabin. A chill lay over the floor; Wynn hadn’t lit a fire before going out to check his trap-line. Though the cold wouldn’t bother the snugly cloaked angel, Wynn didn’t much fancy spending the long winter’s night without an iota of warmth.

So, laying the angel on his own bed of fur, Wynn set about building a roaring fire in the hearth.

He relished the full use of his legs. True, pain still wound its way through his back and shoulders; the gaping socket of his left eye itched uncomfortably as ever, and he still felt he weight of a tattered soul. But he could move with the same swiftness of his young days.

Light and heat filled the cabin in next to no time. Sweating from the sudden warmth and exertion of his fire building, Wynn shrugged out of the deer-skin poncho he’d worn under his furs. Dressed only in his tunic and breeches, he sank wearily onto the big, redwood chair near the fire.

Wynn kept his good eye trained on the figure burrowed under his grizzly cloak.

An angel.

Wynn could hardly believe it. True, it wasn’t uncommon for angels to tread their heavenly feet upon Earth, especially to deliver some portent from their celestial home. More often than not they visited Earth and mingled with mortals in ways unfit for their kind.

But for one to fall? All the angels who could have fallen had, during the ancient battle that had created Hell. This angel appeared to have been cruelly torn from his home—cast out, just as Wynn had been all those years ago.

The tide of memory swept in, and this time, Wynn could not keep it at bay. He’d worn himself out from the long journey into the winter’s night.

He swam for endless time in visions of the past: he saw Samel leave the family path of fighting for the peaceful life of a scholar; he saw their father taken prisoner, and saw himself beg Samel to help rescue the old man. They fought side by side, and suffered loss after loss. He saw their father, driven mad, fall on his sword; he saw the priory where Samel had known peace burst into flame; and again, he heard the snap of bone as a red-skinned, black-eyed hell-elf dug her blade into Samel’s spine.

Wynn started out of sleep. Pale white light lit up the cabin in the morning of a new day. A moment passed in which Wynn didn’t understand why he couldn’t feel the old agony on his leg.

He felt a steady gaze watching him. The angel was awake, sitting upright with the bear pelt around his waist. With his head tilted curiously to one side and his dark hair an untidy mess, he reminded Wynn of a confused puppy.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Wynn got to his feet. He stepped in such a way that he did not put even weight on his once-injured leg. He nearly fell on his face, and righted himself in the knick of time by bracing his hands on the arms of his chair.

The angel started at Wynn’s near-accident.

“It’s fine,” Wynn said. “I’m not used to fully functioning legs.”

“What happened to you?” That voice struck Wynn as it had the night before: gentle and melodic, but deep and brassy.

Wynn felt acutely aware of his own presence at that moment. Here he stood, maimed, grizzled and ugly, before something as beautiful as an angel.

He looked purposefully out the window. Through the glass, he saw Pala eating a tuft of grass that stuck out from the snow gathered around her pasture.

“Nothing,” he mumbled in reply to the angel’s query. “Just war wounds.”

The angel continued to stare; Wynn felt those burning blue eyes on the back of his neck. He didn’t want to be the object of the angel’s scrutiny, least of all when the angel himself was so very radiant.

“What’s your name?” Wynn asked out of genuine curiosity.

When the angel didn’t reply, Wynn looked round. The angel had screwed his face up in bemusement, as if struggling to recollect the day of the week.

“Did you forget?” Wynn asked. It didn’t seem that grand of a thing for the angel to have lost his memory along with his wings.

“No. I don’t have a name. None of the angels have names except for the archangels.”

“Then how do you tell one angel from the other?”

“We simply can. Only the most storied among us are granted titles. Names have never been all too important among lesser.” He spoke bitterly. Wynn could well understand that angel’s pain. Among the ranks of soldiers and mercenaries, only those who proved their mettle and might had been referred to by their proper names. All others were given numbers and rankings.

“I have to have a name so long as I’m here, don’t I?” The angel’s forthright manner took Wynn by surprise. He’d expected him to be lost, angry, and confused.

“That all depends on how long it is you’re going to be here.” Wynn kept his eye fixed on the tall clock in the corner. Like everything else in the house, he’d constructed it himself, using scrap iron and brass bits for weeks.

He didn’t want the nameless angel to see his torn lip, or the patch over his eye, or his broken nose. He certainly didn’t want him seeing the disappointment that would inevitably twist his face when the angel said he would leave once he healed his own broken wings.

“How long?” The angel repeated. “For the rest of my life, I imagine. Fallen angels can die as easily as anything else with a mortal life. 

Wynn frowned, watching the pendulum of the clock—which he’d carved from polished stone—swing to and fro. 

“But you can heal yourself? You healed my leg last night, and I haven’t had proper use of it for almost ten years.” 

The angel sighed. “My wings were taken. It’s the price any angel pays once they fall.”

“But you didn’t fall on purpose.” Wynn glanced at his reflection in the clock’s throat. It seemed rank injustice also extended to the realm of Heaven.

“No. But I still fell. My wings were burned. I may float off the ground a few feet, but I’ll never fly again.” His voice caught. Wynn at last turned and saw the angel’s face belying a heavy heart.

He wanted to comfort the angel, and so did not hesitate to approach the side of the bed. He knelt down, and the angel tensed. His eyes met Wynn’s one good eye, and he smiled almost sheepishly.

“It’s all right,” he said.

Wynn shook his head. “No. It isn’t. It’s not fair.”

“Fairness wasn’t sewn into the fabric of existence,” the angel replied. “It eludes even those in Heaven.”

“Then how did you heal me if there isn’t any justice?”

The angel’s eyes flicked to Wynn’s leg. “You were kind to me,” he said softly. “You gave me warmth. Surely you on Earth know that kindness is akin to force and gravity? Angels can repay kindness because that selfless energy needs to have an outlet, otherwise it disappears and turns to waste.”

Wynn did not like to disabuse the angel of this notion that earthly beings rarely paid kindness with kindness, let alone the thought of it as a force of nature.

“You have to have a name if…if you’re going to be here.”

“Give me a name,” the angel said. He blinked and added, “Are you all right?” For Wynn had flushed to the end of his beard. Naming someone seemed such an intimate thing to do.

“I’m fine,” he said gruffly. “Just don’t think I’m in the right to name you.”

“Why not? Men name the animals that belong to them.”

“ _You_ don’t belong to me,” Wynn added, going even redder.

“But you found me.”

“That still doesn’t mean you belong to me.”

“But where else am I supposed to go?”

Wynn’s nostrils flared—not because he felt any anger towards the angel, but because he was furious at himself for not being able to find a way around the angel’s logic. He chose to find an alternative path away from having to claim ownership.

“You need a name,” he said firmly. He thought of all the angelic titles he’d ever heard tell of. Most brought memories of enforced dogma and religious fundamentalism. He peered at the angel, trying to discern from his appearance an appropriate name. All he could think of were names applicable to cats or stray dogs.

Wynn grimaced. To think someone who’d descended from the sky in a ball of fire would cause him such difficulty in terms of a name!

A vivid flash of the bright, tumbling sphere passed before Wynn’s recollection.

That was it! Something from the sky; something burning with heavenly flame.

“Nova,” Wynn said, and the angel perked up at once. “How does that sound for a name? Nova?”

“Nova,” the angel repeated. He smiled, and all doubts that Wynn had fled for parts unknown.

A moment later, Nova shivered, and drew the bear furs closer around his shoulders. Of course he wasn’t used to the colder temperatures of winter. Heaven, being an eternal paradise, likely existed in a clime of neither hot nor cold.

Wynn strode to the big oak chest—again, one he’d made by hand—and scoured through his clothes—also stitched by his own design—for something Nova could wear. 

“You’re a little small,” Wynn said, half to himself. He withdrew his oldest tunic. “But I can take this in until a deer or something comes along.”

Nova got to his feet. The fur cloak slid to the ground. Wynn did his utmost to keep his eyes on Nova’s face as the angel approached him.

“It feels warm,” Nova said. He grasped the edges of the tunic. “Did you make this?”

“Yes.” Wynn stared at the window over Nova’s shoulder. “I make everything for myself. Here, put this on and mind your wings.” He pressed the tunic against Nova’s chest.

“You built this whole house?” Nova stared around as he tugged the tunic on. The garment hung from his rake-thin frame like a circus tent draped around a scarecrow.

“I did.” Wynn rummaged in one of the cupboards for a bone needle and some thread. “The house, my clothes…even the fireplace.”

“But certainly somebody had to have helped?”

“No. Nobody would help me if I were begging in the gutters.”

“That can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“You’re good.” Nova sounded as if it were as obvious as the act of breathing. He took a pace closer. Wynn tried to determine whether or not he could climb up the chimney—the only available escape at hand—before his face burst from embarrassment.

He felt Nova’s hand at his back, warmth like a spring day radiating from him. When the angel’s hand pressed gently between Wynn’s shoulder blades, he shivered.

The same sensation coursed through his aching spine: like the delightful caress of stepping into a hot bath. Every last echo of pain disappeared; years and years of battle scars and bone deep injuries faded like melting snow.

Wynn glanced at Nova. The angel smiled, with all the innocence of a child.

“There,” he said. “See? Kindness.”

Wynn swallowed. “But…why me?”

Nova laughed. His hand slid from Wynn’s back to the front of his body. It came to rest over his rapidly beating heart.

“You’re good,” Nova repeated. He lingered there just long enough for Nova to feel a long-thought dormant warmth stir. Then, with that innocent smile, he moved off, staring around the cabin, and leaving Wynn in a peculiar state of helplessness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it so far!


	3. The Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wynn sets out to begin repaying his new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a wee bit shorter, but it serves as the crux of the story.

Frostjays were a rare bird in the cities. For that reason, the sight of them tended to cause a stir among everyone from the clergy to the men and women of the night. Wynn’s old friend, Felicia, had been so obsessed with them that she’d caught many a cold searching for them in the winter months.

Here, in this inhospitable reach, frostjays were something of a nuisance. True, Wynn did still find them alluringly beautiful, but they were so numerous during the deep, long winter that he sometimes thought of them as rats with wings…stunningly gorgeous rats, with blue-white plumage, long tail feathers and a song that sounded like the hum of a flute.

Wynn crunched through the snow, listening as the melodious song of the frostjays filled the woods. It had been over a week since he’d stumbled upon Nova in the clearing, and still he found the full use of his legs and the absence of pain in his body somewhat of an adjustment.

Not that he would complain. Nor did he find the presence of another living being aside from the animals as burdensome as he’d thought.

Nova liked to talk to him, about the most mundane things. All the he saw, heard and smelled fascinated him. He would stare, transfixed with wonder, as Wynn told him tales of the cities; of his time in the wilderness, and of things far more banal. By night, he ate ravenously of the simple meals that Wynn prepared fro them both. He watched falling snow with the amazement of one witnessing a meteor shower, and listen in awe at the wailing of the wind.

It was hard for Wynn not to compare Nova’s naïve fascination to Samel; of how Samel’s eyes had lit up at the sight of anything that moved his heart. But Nova was also so unlike Wynn’s little brother, who’d always had a touch of weary cynicism in his blood. Everything was so new to the angel; all that Wynn had grown bored with or taken for granted, Nova greeted with delight.

And through that delight, Wynn found himself appreciating his home and the lands it stood on, anew.

Nova made him want to be better. Not even before he’d been made outcast had Wynn wanted to be anything of the kind.

He’d say that he mistrusted the feeling, but that would be a lie. Rather, it felt almost unfair that Nova gave Wynn such contentment when Wynn had nothing to give in return.

For nights, he’d lain awake, turning the dis-satisfaction over in his mind. What could he, a disgraced soldier and solitary woodsman, give to an angel?

The answer had come to him the previous day. Nova had woken before Wynn had rolled out of bed. Watching the angel, Wynn had been struck by the smooth ivory stumps on his back—al that remained of his once majestic wingspan.

Angels needed wings; angels needed to fly. If neither of those things, then what would Nova be but ordinary? Wynn couldn’t abide thinking Nova as something so mundane, because really, he was the most extraordinary thing Wynn had ever known.

He had to start somewhere, and as the chickens were not yet of age to be plucked and butchered (chicken feathers also didn’t strike Wynn as fitting for something as amazing as an angel he’d decided on frostjays.

Picking his footing carefully, Wynn crept into a grove positively bursting with song. Behind him, Pala, stood hoof-deep in the snow, vapor streaming from her muzzle. She had made her displeasure at treading through inches and inches of virgin snow apparent from the second Wynn had untethered her from the stable.

But it was for Nova. Nova, who had taken to grooming Pala with the lightest of touches in the last few days.

Wynn looked up the bright sky of a clear winter’s afternoon. The snow-capped firs reached to the golden-white light of the sun like worshipful sentries. Only over a week ago and Wynn would have found the sound of the frostjays irritating; he’d have thought the sun too glaring, and the snow too deep.

Nova, were he there, would have been captivated. Wynn could imagine the wonder on the angel’s face. It made that foreign and shunned warmth blossom in his chest.

He let himself feel the rays of the sun; allowed his lungs to take in the crisp, cool air. He listened to the resonant song of the frostjays, hearing it, for the first time, as true music. 

Even in the innocence and ignorance of his childhood, he’d never appreciated beauty like this. 

Wynn smirked. He took a deep breath, and then let peal a loud roar that shook the snowflakes from the evergreen boughs.

The frostjays ceased their song. The air filled with the flapping of scores of wings. Wynn glimpsed the flock as they took to the air: they were as large and long as weasels, with smooth domed heads; white plumage disappeared into the white sky, with only glimpses of a spectrum’s worth of serpentine tail feathers, visible.

These feathers soon tumbled to the snow, falling from the frostjays in the abruptness of their fright.

Something viscous landed on Wynn’s shoulder with a plop.

He grimaced. Behind him, Pala nickered with mirth.

“Oh, shut up, you old nag.” Wynn swiped at the dropping with one gloved finger. He flung it at Pala, and smirked when it hit his faithful horse on her muzzle.

In their flight, the frostjays had littered the snow with shed feathers. Wynn knelt, and collected as many of them as he could. He filled his rucksack with them, once again grateful that Nova had restored his mobility.

After his knees were thoroughly soaked through, Wynn stood. He’d need more feathers. In fact, he would need more materials aside from feathers. It would take longer than the duration of this mesmerizing winter for him to construct new wings for his angel.

But that would mean that Nova could stay with him until spring came.

Wynn grinned at the sky, for once unconscious of his mangle lips. He could afford to wait a while longer for the frostjays to settle into their nests again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying things so far!


	4. The Meal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wynn returns to the cabin to find an unexpected surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember writing this chapter whilst enjoying some Hungarian mushroom stew.

When Wynn returned from the grove, it was to find smoke billowing from the open window of his cabin. Thankfully, there wasn’t enough to give him concern that the whole place would go up in flames. And when a turn of the breeze wafted a distinct smell of burnt food to him, any fears he had diminished to nothing.

He approached his home, leading a thoroughly amused Pala with him. Once he was within a few hundred yards, the front door burst open.

Nova gasped and coughed, a trail of smoke escaping behind him. His whole face shone with sweat, and his eyebrows appeared to have been singed to the roots.

“What happened?” Wynn laughed. Behind him, Pala let out a derisive snort, as if to say “What do you think?” Wynn elected to ignore her.

Nova looked as if he were about to burst into tears. “I…I tried to work that magic…and it turned to ash and fire.”

“Magic?”

“Yes! With the heat and pans and the food! I wanted to make a meal for you, and it burst into flames.” Nova wiped at his sooty face.

Wynn stared for a long while. The angel had tried to cook for him. For as long as Nova had been with him Wynn had prepared their meals, taking joy in a process that he’d only undertaken by rote in the past. Now that he was cooking food for another, the whole affair had become something Wynn anticipated. He loved to watch Nova’s eyes sparkle with delight and interested as he ate plates of warm scrambled eggs, hot bowls of hearty soup, and heaps of cheese and vegetables.

And now Nova had tried to return the favor, and nearly burnt his hair off.

Wynn threw his head back and laughed. The sound echoed around the winter woods. It was a genial laugh—the laughter of a young man who’d never seen or felt the pain of Wynn’s life.

Pala practically bolted for the safety of her stable. She wasn’t used to hearing her master sound so plainly and unashamedly joyful.

“Is it amusing?” Nova asked with a cock of his head. “I’m still not clear on what accounts for humor among mortals.”

“Yes,” said Wynn, finally mustering enough breath to utter speech. “It’s very amusing. Here, let’s see the extent of the damage.” He put a big hand on Nova’s shoulder, and together they entered the cabin.

The damage extended only as far as the pervasive aroma of smoke and charred food. A congealed black lump of something lay smoldering in an iron skillet on the stove.

“I’ve ruined it!” Nova cried. “I don’t understand! I’ve watched and watched, and I thought I knew how, and now it’s all—

“Nova, calm down.” Wynn tried hard to keep the amusement out of his voice. “It’s nothing, really. We’ll just keep the windows open. Today isn’t too cold a day, and we have blankets and furs to—

“But I wanted it to work!” Nova looked truly upset, as if the whole sky had come crashing down. “You’ve made meals fro me since I got here. You’ve clothed me and given me a place to sleep, and I haven’t done a single thing to help.”

Wynn seized the impulse as soon as it stole upon him. He put both hands on Nova’s shoulders, and looked him in the eye.

“Are you blind? You think you haven’t given me anything? Nova, look at my leg and my back. You cleansed that pain from me. And…you’re here with me, too. Nobody ever has been. You don’t need to feel obliged to help. Not when you just being here is help enough.”

Nova’s eyes widened. His lips parted like an opening flower.

An old feeling filled Wynn, from his guts to his chest. It felt like the first breeze of spring, thawing a rime that had surrounded him for years immeasurable.

“You…enjoy having me here?” Nova whispered. 

“Yes, you idiot,” Wynn said with affection. He squeezed Nova’s shoulders, and then gently turned the angel around, mindful of the sensitive stumps of his wings. “Here; we’ll clean all this up, and then I’ll _help_ you make something.”

Nova relaxed. Wynn rather thought that he would sink into his arms. His face went red at the thrilling thought. 

Together, they aired out the cabin and cleaned the burned mess left in the skillet. Despite the chill that overtook the house, an imperceptible something else maintained warmth between both of the its inhabitants.

Nova paid rapt attention as Wynn showed him how to chop a pile of wild mushrooms and an onion; he delighted in adding salt and dill to the iron pot set over the fire. And when it came time to stir, he did so with a vigor that reminded Wynn of a kitten.

The only real aid he needed came when it was time to grind some dried peppers. Wynn stood behind him at first, instructing him on how best to use the mortar and pestle. When Nova had let the heavy pestle slip from his grip for a fourth time, Wynn said, “Here,” and gently took his angel’s wrists in both hands.

He helped keep the mortar steady while Nova ground the spices into powder.

The proximity was by far the most intimate Wynn had been with anyone in many years. He had no cause to suffer the cold, for the very nearness of Nova caused his skin to prickle with heat. And Nova didn’t seem to mind, nor notice at all; he moved, unconscious of how close to Wynn’s body he stood.

The whole cabin, once choked with the acrid stench of smoke, was filled with the smell of hearty soup. By the time Wynn and Nova sat down to eat, the sun started to set behind the mountains.

Wynn made sure to close the windows before they supped. For once in the history of its construction, the cabin felt undeniably cozy.

“This is wonderful,” Nova said after his first mouthful of soup.

“I’m glad,” Wynn said, not certain that the remark pertained entirely to Nova’s appreciation of the food.

“Thank you for preparing it.”

“I didn’t do all the work, Nova. You helped a great deal.”

“I can’t have.” Nova took another grateful gulp of soup. “Angels can’t create anything this earthly.” His face suddenly fell, but not as if he’d understood a tragedy of some kind. Rather, he resembled a child that had just come to understand some bitter truth about life.

“I suppose I’m not entirely an angel.”

“You are,” Wynn said, a bit defensively. “You healed me.”

“Angels only live in Heaven. What does that make me if I’m not there?”

“It has nothing to do with where you are, Nova. That would be like…” And then Wynn’s face went red once more.

But Nova, intuitive as he was, picked up that which had been left to silence.

“It would be like you thinking that living out here changed you from who you used to be, wouldn’t it?”

Wynn frowned. “It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because…because you’re _you_ and I’m _me_.”

Nova shook his head. “I can’t pretend to understand that.”

“I did terrible things back in society,” Wynn said, determined to have his own hand be what carried out this crucifixion. “You haven’t.”

“Haven’t I?” Nova smiled ruefully, and ate some more soup. Now a real tragedy hung about him. “Heaven isn’t an unaware place, Wynn. Not all prayers are answered. There’s suffering on Earth, and sometimes Heaven lets it happen.”

He looked Wynn in the eye. “But to want punishment for it when guilt as pain suffices?” He shook his head. “Don’t you think you’ve suffered enough?”

A lump had come into Wynn’s throat. Nobody had ever expatiated the guilt he’d carried with him. Then again, nobody could, given that he’d lived so far from people.

He wanted to touch Nova again, but his angel was too preoccupied with his bowl of fragrant soup.

With no other option, Wynn began to eat. Every few seconds, he and Nova locked eyes over the small table that separated them. Wynn had known silence, but never like this: never one where the quiet didn’t scream to be broken.

Night blanketed the snowy Wildlands. The only light in the cabin came from the slowly smoldering fire in the hearth.

When the pot was entirely empty, and both man and angel were full, Wynn got to his feet and cleared the table. He thought of that day’s quest to found and collect frostjay feathers. After the conversation they’d had, Wynn felt more determined than ever that Nova should have some semblance of wings again. No matter what he said to the contrary, Nova was an unblemished being. He, Wynn, was a marked Cain, doomed to repay the crimes of his life.

As he dried his hands, he felt Nova standing behind him. The warmth of the angel’s gaze seared at the back of Wynn’s head. He turned, only to find that Nova stood closer than he’d anticipated.

Shadows cloaked the angel, save for the parts of his face illuminated in the glow of the dying embers.

Nova stepped closer, until air couldn’t pass between them. Wynn’s heart fluttered. He truly thought that he would feel Nova’s lips against his own mangled mouth in a matter of seconds.

But Nova didn’t kiss him. Instead, he covered with bottom of Wynn’s face with his large, slender hand. The same pleasant warmth fluttered across Wynn’s scared and twisted lips.

Nova dropped his hand, and Wynn quickly touched his fingers to his face.

Of all the scars he’d sustained over the course of his life, the one on his face had been with him the longest—had walled him from his fellow man the longest. And now, because of this remarkable being in front of him, it was no more.

Nova smiled. He made to turn to the bed, but Wynn caught him by the wrist.

“Why?” Wynn whispered. “I didn’t show you any kindness. I’ve been feeding you all week.”

“Yes, you have. But you let me help you this time. You let me create something, Wynn.” And with that, he walked to his blankets, leaving Wynn healed and shaken to his very core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it so far!


	5. The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In need of something for his gift, Wynn ventures to civilization with Nova at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little long!

Winter continued its stronghold over the Wildlands. Though the days marched steadily into weeks, the thaw of spring would not touch upon the immense forests and iron mountains until the lands to the south were well on their into summer.

A routine developed between Wynn and Nova. Taken by the act of cooking, Nova bore the title of meal maker and home keeper. Meanwhile, Wynn, his body almost completely healed due to Nova’s grace, set out daily to gather firewood, hunt animals, and collect what berries and nuts he could procure. On clement days, he took Pala out in search of as many frostjay feathers as he could find. His storeroom was bursting with sacks of the white-pastel plumage by the time the moon grew full again.

When the storms set in, he and Nova remained comfortably cloistered indoors. Nova told him tales of Heaven, and of lands further off than Wynn had ever dreamed of. Wynn, nothing loath, gradually opened up about his life: his time on the guard, the days he’d spent with Samel, and what had driven him to the Wildlands in the first place.

Nova had no cause to heal Wynn further. Not all the scars that had marred him had been set to rights, but Wynn didn’t mind so much. His nose had been broken so often that it had become a feature of his appearance well into his adult life, and as for his eye…

“I can, you know,” Nova told him one night. The winds outside had stirred the snow into a dancing blanket of almost impenetrable white; Wynn doubted they’d get out over the next few days.

“Can what?”

“Heal your eye.”

Wynn ran a hand over his patch.

“I’d have wanted that only a short while ago,” he admitted. “But now…” He chuckled. “It almost makes me feel like a pirate.”

“It doesn’t paint you?”

“Not really.” Wynn looked out the window at the swirling storm. “Does it bother you?”

Nova, curled up on the rug before the crackling fire, glanced Wynn’s way. “What cause would I have to be bothered by anything you are, Wynn? You’re all I know; you’re all that I want to know. If it doesn’t trouble you, then it doesn’t trouble me.”

Wynn smiled softly. “Then don’t heal it.”

He wouldn’t say it aloud, but he could have cared less had Nova chosen either way. He didn’t feel the warmth in his gut or the lightness in his heart as a result of Nova’s angelic potential. He felt it for a reason altogether more pure.

It would have given any other person who’d been as jaded a cause to retreat. But in the light of Nova’s goodness, Wynn found his patience for self-flagellation growing less each passing day. True, what he felt for the angel amazed and frightened him. But to treat the feelings as something to flee from? He couldn’t abide such stupidity in himself.

He’d collected a significant amount of feathers by the time of the new moon. It was no longer necessary to chase down the frostjays at their nesting places. Instead, Wynn began to construct frames, shaped like the wingspan of an eagle. It took only a matter of days for the solid oak wood and iron sprockets to come together. But once Wynn found himself looking at the wing frames—which measured a good twelve feet across—he realized what it was that was missing.

He had no way of affixing the feathers to the frame. Even though the frame could bend and fold, there was no way to attach the frostjay feathers. Wynn didn’t want to use nail; they would show through, and the frame looked crude as it was.

Furious, Wynn kicked at a bucket of old ingots. He succeeded only in causing a bolt of pain to shoot up his healed leg. Cursing, hopping up and down and nursing his foot, he suppressed the urge to lash out at something else.

Sufficiently calmed, he stared around his workshop. True, he had numerous tools and materials—most traded by those few travelers who’d dared venture into the unforgiving Wildlands—but none would work in a way that fit Wynn’s vision.

Doubt crept into his heart. Suppose he offered Nova a human’s idea of an angel’s wings? And now he thought of it, Nova’s wings had been black when he’d fallen to Earth. The frostjay feathers, while a stunning iris of white and rainbow, couldn’t compare with the perfect sheen of pitch black…

Pitch.

That was it! All doubts vanished from Wynn’s mind. He could coat the frame in hot, sticky resin and not damage the feathers at all! But as resin was something he lacked, he would have to venture to the trading post in town.

The thought filled him with dread. Not only had he not stepped formerly twisted foot into polite society, but he would have to leave Nova behind for the day and night journey to town.

He glanced down at the frame.

It would be a slim chance that this crude gift made Nova happy. But Wynn wanted to take that risk. Nova could say what he wanted about kindness being a force in and of itself, but Wynn didn’t think it fair that all his injuries had been healed over a few acts of repayment.

His mind thusly made up, Wynn closed his workshop. Daylight was still high in the blue, cloudy sky. If he set out forthwith, he could the lights of the town only a few hours after darkness had fallen.

When, at last, he entered the cabin, it was to find Nova chopping a gradually growing pile of pumpkin. He smiled at Wynn, and Wynn felt his heart glow.

“I’m attempting pie,” Nova explained. “Something sweet. All those meat pies are leaving me with a desire for something a little less savory.”

“Pumpkin pie? Are you certain you won’t set the chimney on fire?”

“Yes!” Nova said brightly. “I’ve watched you all this time, and besides: if I make a mistake, you’ll be here to help me.”

Wynn’s face fell a little. “Nova,” he said gently, “I won’t be able to help you if you plan on making that pie this night.”

“Why not?”

“I have to make a journey. Not a long one. I should be back tomorrow night if the weather holds. I just have to go to the village.” He paused, knowing that trying to avoid an explanation wouldn’t do at all. “There’s something we’re in need of that I don’t have in stock.”

“You’re going to travel down the mountain, alone? At night?”

“Well, yes, I suppose—

“But what if something happens to you? Or to me?”

The very thought of Nova being in danger of any kind caused Wynn’s throat to tighten. Unbidden, images of the cabin under attack from all manner of monstrosity flooded his mind. He thought of Nova, here alone, defenseless against anything at all that chose to set its evil sights on him.

“You’ll come with me, then.” How could he have been so foolhardy as to think that abandoning Nova, even for just a night, was a good idea?

Nova looked sadly at the table. “But the pie…I wanted to make it just for you.”

Wynn reached across the table and took Nova’s hands in his. For once, Nova was the once who went red in the face.

“I appreciate your devotion to pie, especially as I’m partial to it myself. But there’s always another day for it.”

“But what about all of this?” Nova gestured at the pile of russet pumpkin innards.

“We can feed it to Pala. She’ll need the extra energy before we set out.”

Nova frowned. “Why are you so determined to leave now? We cold sleep and leave in the morning…”

Cornered, Wynn cast around for as good an excuse as he could muster. There was no reason he couldn’t postpone their journey to town. But when he thought of that immense, empty frame, part of him felt the pressure of immediacy choke his breath.

He let go of Nova’s hand. Averting his gaze to a dark corner of the room, he said, “I suppose you’re right.”

“Wynn?”

“Hmph.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Hrm.”

Nova laughed. “You’re sulking!”

“M’doing nothing of the kind.”

“Yes, you are.” Nova stood, and Wynn felt an overwhelming urge to flee to the safety of the space under his bed. But he remained in his seat, not flinching when Nova knelt before him.

“Look at me, Wynn.” And so Wynn looked. The smile on his angel’s face was soft as dandelion fluff. “If it matters to you, then we’ll start out tonight.”

Wynn glanced at Nova. “Are you sure?”

“Completely. I’ll follow you anywhere, Wynn.”

Wynn caressed the side of Nova’s face. He’d never braved a gesture so tender before. But it felt the perfect thing to do.

Nova sighed, and leaned into the touch.

“I don’t fear the night, or the cold,” Wynn said softly. “I only fear what could happen to you out there…”

“Nothing will,” Nova said.

And so it was, less than an hour later as a waning moon spilled pale light across the Wildlands, Wynn and Nova rode a path through the forest. Pala was not thrilled at having been woken from a warm slumber in order to carry both master and angel on a long journey. But the night lay peaceful across the land, serene as a sleeping maiden. And though cold did prick acutely against Wynn’s skin, there was scarcely any wind to speak of.

Nova sat behind Wynn, dressed in layers of fur to keep the chill at bay. Both arms were wrapped securely around Wynn’s waist, and his cheek pressed most snugly on Wynn’s shoulder. He might have been asleep, for the hour was late—too late for anything with sense to be awake. 

Yet Wynn, gripping tightly to Pala’s reins as she trod leisurely through the wonder of a white winter, could feel the beating of Nova’s heart—each glad leap vibrating against his back at every new sight and sound.

They made way steadily downwards, out from the height of the mountains to the woods, all the way to the valley below.

Nova gasped at the sight of the sky overhead. A velvet-black sky shone with the light of untold scores of stars.

Wynn looked over his shoulder. The awe in his angel’s eyes pierced the already-thawing cold in his heart. He wanted nothing more than to take Nova in his arms and kiss the breath from him.

But though his face no longer bore as many hideous scars of his long, cruel life, his own burning need repulsed him. He would frighten Nova with such ferocity, and he couldn’t bear to think of the angel in any state of distress. 

Wynn pressed his forehead against Nova’s. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He whispered.

“Yes,” Nova sighed, huddling closer to Wynn. “I’ve never seen it from here before. In Heaven it all looked so small. But here? It’s infinite…”

If he, an angel, could find beauty in a world that seemed so weary, then didn’t it stand to reason that Wynn could as well? He, a mere mortal who’d lived a comparable scant four decades, could still find something inspiring and wonderful in a world that had only ever been unkind.

Pala snorted, keen to move on. She, along with her master, could traverse a full day and night if needs be—not that Wynn felt compelled to press his luck. Nova, on the other hand, leaned into the strength of Wynn’s back and, despite his wonder, began to sleep soundly.

They reached the lowlands by the time the sky began to lighten. The sun rose behind the towering peaks of the mountains, painting the snow in hues of pink and gold.

From the vantage point at the crest of winding pass, Wynn stared at the stone buildings in the town below. Thatched cottages clustered in cozy blocks; the spire of a church pointed towards the morning sky. Already its bell tolled the early hour, reinforcing the exhaustion in Wynn’s bones with each echo. 

In the past, the sight and sound of any church put Wynn in mind of Samel. His brother’s piety had been a wedge between a bond that had seen them through a childhood of neglect and abuse. In the end, it had been the one between them seeking peace who’d ended up meeting the bloodiest end. Wynn hadn’t been able to endure so much as a thought of religion since.

Now, though, the bells waking the town didn’t fill him with dread and disdain. Instead, he thought of Nova—of that alluring censure-smoke and candle wax small he carried; of his gentle hands and warm spirit.

With a sigh and a small smile, Wynn tugged on Pala’s reins. She was nearing her limit, as was he, but once they reached the inn, Pala could sleep as long as she wished.

Soon, the houses and shops grew denser around them. Pala’s hooves clattered over cobblestones. Here in the valley, winter was well on its way towards spring.

Shopkeeps, guards and farmhands took notice of the two visitors astride the pitch-black steed. Some merely glanced at them, then went on their way. Others—those who’d done business with the old recluse in the Wildlands—stared with gaping mouths.

Even with his face mostly healed, it wasn’t hard to pick Wynn out of a crowd. Pala herself was bigger, sleeker and darker than most of the plough horses and guard steeds that populated the town.

Wynn couldn’t help but grin a little. He didn’t think of himself as vain. That luxury had been afforded in the distant days of his youth. When he’d been spry and virile, he’d played to his looks as much as his military prowess. But he’d gone so long being plagued by pain and his twisted, mangled body, that the thought of people looking at him without disgust, fear or pity made him sit a little taller on Pala’s back. 

Of course, they could just as easily have been staring at Nova.

Wynn felt the angel stir. His arms tightened around Wynn’s waist, and he pressed closer.

“Are you all right?” Wynn asked. They were trotting over the bridge towards the big inn. Wynn could feel people staring, but paid them no heed.

“There’s so much,” Nova whispered. “More than I ever thought there would be.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Wynn said. “I don’t care for them much, either.” Of course Nova would be shy of the beehive around him. He’d spent so long with Wynn, having no contact or concept of the people occupying the world beyond. 

“How long will we be here for?” Nova asked, turning away from a gawking woman selling potatoes.

“We’ll sleep the day.” They drew near the inn. Though built of the same gray stone as the rest of the buildings in town, it was nonetheless more inviting. Merry golden lights danced in the mullioned windows; and when a sleepy patron shuffled out of the front door, a gust of delicious smells hit Wynn and Nova full in their faces.

Wynn dismounted, then helped Nova to the ground. A young stablehand accepted some coin from Wynn, and helped Pala towards a vast stable buttressing the inn.

“She’ll be safe,” Wynn said at the look of concern on Nova’s face. “Pala hasn’t let anyone get the better of her yet.”

“She’s going to sleep here?”

“Yes. And so are we. We’ll get what we need after we’ve rested.” Wynn made sure to keep Nova close to him as they entered the inn. “I’ve got enough gold for us to stay a full day.”

“Gold?” Nova frowned. But Wynn didn’t answer. He approached the bar, and the expectant landlady behind it.

“One bedroom?” She said in a drowsy voice.

“Yes, please,” Wynn said.

“We’ve only got a room with one bed,” she said. “Big enough. But there’s bedding aplenty if you fancy creating a place to sleep on the floor.”

Wynn felt his face grow warm. “I, ah, suppose that—

“ ‘Course, it’s extra for bedding. And the room’s a good distance from others.” She winked. “Plenty of privacy, if you get my meaning.”

Wynn gaped, unable to formulate coherent thought.

Behind him, Nova continued to look around with wary curiosity at all there was to see.

At that moment, a voice called out, “Wynn? Wynn of Lawrence Plain?”

Wynn turned round, and saw a face out of his past. Willowy and tall, with an unmistakable air of gentleness, the woman moved between tables, her face the very picture of disbelief.

“It is you!” Her beryl-green eyes shone with amazement. Dressed in warm deerskin leggings, a pale green over-tunic and shawl, she looked much the same as she had when Wynn had last seen her so, so many years ago. Even her hair, red as a glowing ember, was the same silky length it had been then.

“Hello, Felicia,” Wynn said.

Felicia didn’t seem to hear him. She gazed from his healed mouth to his newly able leg. Then she reached a hand forth and touched Wynn’s stubble-covered jaw.

“What happened to you?” A smile graced her lips. “And more importantly, what brings you here? Usually you’re sequestered unless you can absolutely help it.”

“There’s, uh, something I needed.” He didn’t understand. Why should she be so pleased to see him? The last time he and Felicia had been in one another’s company had ended in a devastating argument.

Felicia glanced around Wynn’s body. Nova stood, shy and silent, observing the interaction with guarded interest.

A smirked crossed Felicia’s lips. “You have a friend with you, I see. Well…it’s about damn time.” She extended her hand. “My name is Felicia. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Like a timid kitten, Nova stepped away from the shield of Wynn’s body. He ignored Felicia’s offered hand, and took a strand of her long, auburn hair, between his fingers.

“It’s like fire,” he said in complete wonderment. He met Felicia’s bemused eyes, and smiled bright and big. “How is it possible to have beautiful hair?”

Had it been anyone else, and Nova would have been rebuked, or even struck. But Felicia had the kindest, most open heart of anyone Wynn had ever known.

“I suppose I’m simply lucky,” Felicia said. “It’s darkened as I’ve gotten older. When I was a child, it was red as a carrot.”

Nova let Felicia’s hair slip from his touch. He turned a radiant smile to Wynn.

“This world is spectacular,” he said.

Wynn could never resist the spell that Nova’s smile cast. To him, it was the sun of a spring day, melting coldness from his heart. It promised true betterment—redemption for even someone like him. 

“It can be,” he said.

Felicia put a hand on Wynn’s arm. “It’s been a long time since I heard you say anything like that.” Her eyes turned to Nova, wisdom and understanding illuminating the green.

Whether she intuited it or not, Felicia elected to keep her peace.

“I’m glad I got to see you again,” she said. “I’m glad for a lot of things. Don’t wait until the next thaw to come into the village, okay?”

“I…” How in the world had he forgotten about her generous heart? Had he really been so entombed by his own wretched misery that he’d blotted her out from his recollection entirely?

Wynn nodded. “I won’t. I promise.”

He didn’t object when Felicia wrapped her arms around him. She smelled like leather and honey. The scent catapulted Wynn into a simpler time of life.

Ordinarily, such flashbacks would have him grinding his teeth in an effort to stave them off. Now, though, he didn’t run from them, nor did he reach desperately for them to soothe his torment. He smiled at them, welcomed them the way he did Felicia’s embrace.

“Take care of yourself,” Wynn whispered into her hair.

Felicia smiled and stood back with a sly grin. “I always do. And I don’t think I need to remind you to likewise. Although…” Once again, she looked to Nova. “I don’t feel so hesitant to let you leave, now I know you’re no longer alone.”

Wynn watched her go, the red of her hair a beacon in the otherwise drab sea of leather and dirndls.

Nova’s hand slipped into his.

“She was a close friend, wasn’t she?” He whispered.

“Yes. Almost…almost like a sister.”

Nova pressed his forehead against Wynn’s shoulder. “I’m happy that you had a friend like her, Wynn.” He sounded as if he were about to topple over at any moment.

Wynn felt his own exhaustion crash over him like an avalanche. His eyes ached, to say nothing of his back. 

“Oi!” The sharp voice of the landlady prevented Wynn from nodding off right then and there. “Are you taking the room, or not?”

Wynn fished in his rucksack for some gold, and placed enough for a full day and night on the counter. Thusly paid, the proprietor became much more friendly. She passed him a key with a smile, and said, “Upstairs, third on the left. You might want to hurry. Nobody deserves to sleep on the floor down here.”

Nova was, in fact, all but slipping down Wynn’s body to the floor. 

Chuckling, Wynn gently scooped his angel into his arms. Nova didn’t wake up once as Wynn carried him to their room upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it! The next update won't be until next week, as I'm moving on Saturday and won't have Internet access until Tuesday.


	6. The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late at night, Wynn takes comfort from an unexpected source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've not been feeling well this week. But my Internet is connected, so I hope to update the last few chapters. Thanks so much for the kudos and the comments!

For the first time in living memory, Wynn awoke from pleasant dreams. Full darkness had draped the town outside the room he shared with Nova. He’d slept a whole day and well into the wee hours of the next morning.

The presence of a warm body next to his was the most wonderful thing to wake up to. Nova lay on his side, his arms half-way stretched across the blankets—as if he were reaching out for something…reaching out for Wynn.

He’d done so much for Wynn’s miserable life in such a small space of time. And all Wynn had to show for it was an incomplete set of wooden wings.

Would his angel even like such a primitive gift?

Wynn pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to stop thinking of Nova as “his angel.” Nova belonged to himself. Even with the walls around his heart slowly toppling, Wynn wasn’t naïve. No matter how deeply people could love each other, they didn’t belong to anyone other than themselves. Such notions were saved for songs and stories.

Quietly as he could so as not to disturb Nova, Wynn climbed out of bed. He splashed some water over his empty eye, and tugged the patch over. The room was warm, and so he and Nova had both stripped down to their underclothes to sleep. Air caressed Wynn’s bare chest. Now that he was awake, he wouldn’t fall back to sleep any time soon. 

He went to the window, and opened it just a crack. The air in the valley, though warmer than in the Wildlands, still carried a trace of winter’s chill in it.

The town slept, though Wynn knew it would be only a matter of time before the farmers and shop vendors stirred.

Off in the distance, far beyond the rooftops and walls of the town, a glowing, serpentine creature wound itself between fog-blanketed foothills.

Wynn recognized it as an irdrake: a dragon of light. They were a docile version of the breed, utterly harmless and peaceful. Translucent in the daytime, they slept where they could collect the most sunlight, devouring it with their scales the way plants soaked in the sun.

At night, all the light they’d gathered rippled through their bodies, casting them in magnificent, prismatic hues.

This particular irdrake glowed in blue and purple—like a living, undulating aurora.

Nova had called the world spectacular. To Wynn, the world had been something to keep at a distance. It had only shown him its ugliest shades: violence, pain, destruction and loss.

But there had always been other sides: the beauty of a late winter’s night; the radiance of a woman’s hair, and the quiet majesty of the dragon now coiling itself through the low hills.

And of course, family.

“Samel,” he whispered to the stars shining overhead. “Sammy…I don’t know what to do. It’s been so long since I felt anything at all…”

One of the last times he’d seen his brother alive, he’d told Samel that he wished he didn’t feel emotions period. He and his militia had ransacked an innocent settlement on the King’s orders. The screams and blood had haunted Wynn to the deepest parts of his being.

“I…I love him,” Wynn continued. “I’ve never been in love before, Sammy. Not really. But the thing I feel for him…I’m scared.” He rubbed a hand over his heart. “The last time I let myself be this vulnerable…”

His love had been of the filial sort: for Samel, and those few people he’d held dear, like Felicia.

Across the fields, the irdrake raised its head. A sound like the mournful call of a whale filled the air: the low, prolonged hum wouldn’t be heard or even felt by anyone asleep.

But Wynn heard it, and in that sound he also heard Samel’s voice—pleasant and intelligent, and altogether comforting.

Let yourself be vulnerable. Are you really so frightened of the possibilities that you would deny yourself something so fulfilling?

Wynn sighed. He didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t know if Nova would feel the same, or if he had any right to call the angel his. All he knew was that he felt weary to his bones. He’d run for so long, and when he’d stopped running, he’d done everything in his power to shut out a world he only half knew.

Now, he wanted to rest. He wanted to know a world that held other people; a sky silly with frostjays and lands where beings as beautiful as irdrakes stirred.

And he wanted Nova.

Wynn closed the window. Rubbing at his eye, he padded back to the bed. He pulled his patch off once more, set it on the bedside table, and crawled into bed.

Almost at once, Nova rolled gently into him, the warmth of his bare skin flush with Wynn’s chest. Abandoning all prior doubt, Wynn curled an arm around Nova’s shoulder, and held him close.

Just before he close his eyes, he saw his angel smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	7. The Kiss

They left town that afternoon, both plenty rested. Pala carried a jar of pitch on her saddlebag, and though small, it weighed her down just enough. Wynn decided not to push for another full day’s journey back to the cabin.

Nova kept them both busy, this time asking questions about Felicia’s’ life. Wynn welcomed the memories once more. He recounted the times he, Samel, and Felicia had journeyed together before Fate had rent them asunder.

“But where does she live now?” Nova asked. They’d stopped to make camp in a sheltered, empty cave.  

“She’s with her wife, I think.” Wynn struck his knife against a block of flint, attempting to start a fire. “At least, that’s where she was the last time I saw her: with the elf she’d met at Rennly Faire.”

“Can humans and elf-folk be together?”

“Yes. And no. Humans don’t frown upon other races being together. I can’t say the same for some races of elves.” The flint caught, and a shower of sparked landed on the tuft of kindling. In less than no time, a merry fire crackled before them.

Wynn glanced at Nova. “Does Heaven forbid such things?”

“Love isn’t forbidden when it’s truly love.” His cheeks darkened, and he looked at the dry, rocky floor of the cave. “Even humans and…and angels have been known to fall in love.”

The crackling of wood filled the chasm of silence between them. Wynn, crouched before the flames, felt the old pull of his shackles. He wanted to keep his distance because it was the safe thing to do.

The voice he’d heard in the irdrake’s call returned to him.

_Be_ _vulnerable_.

He crawled across the smooth, cold floor of the cave. Nova stared at him, eyes wide and blue as the sea. Air had long since been sucked from the cave. Wynn couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of find the power to speak.

He cupped Nova’s face with steady hands. Nova’s lips parted—an invitation that made Wynn’s heart race.

“Do you love me, Nova?”

Nova’s breath caught. His pulse thrummed, the vein in his throat dancing beneath Wynn’s thumb.

“I…I don’t know.”

Had Nova slapped him across the face, Wynn would have been less stung. He dropped his hands, and stared, numb, at the angel.

Nova didn’t appear to register the effect his words had had. He stared into the fire, as if seeing some sort of portent in the flames.

“The only love I’ve ever known is the kind that is expected of me,” he said. “Angels have to love; have to love the Father, each other and all life on Earth.”

He laughed, a bitter sound that Wynn did not like. “We even have to love our enemies.”

The wind outside the cave picked up. Pala, tethered near the mouth of the cave, stamped and snuffled.

“What I feel for you isn’t like that,” Nova said. “It makes that kind of love appear diminished. Like everything here, it’s so familiar, but also so new and different.

“I’ve only felt a cursory resemblance to this.” He rubbed a fist over his heart, as if it ached unimaginably. “It makes me feel safe and scared all at once—like I could fly and drown.” His eyes met Wynn’s at long last, just as exposed as Wynn himself felt.

“Please,” he said, “please tell me that this what love feels like.” His voice caught. Nova had never broken down since the night Wynn had found him, and Wynn couldn’t abide it.

He held the angel close, their hearts beating almost in rhythm. He wanted still to choose the path of jaded; to say that he didn’t know. But to do so would be to discard every gift this remarkable fragment of Heaven had given him. Not just the healing of his once mangled body, but he absolute rebirth of his belief in life and love—the rebirth of his soul.

“It is,” he whispered, lips against Nova’s forehead. “Gods, it is. I feel it too, Nova. The fear, the uncertainty. But I don’t care about any of that. I can’t.”

And perhaps that was what love truly was: the highest pinnacle of courage—courage, which itself wasn’t the absence of dread and doubt, but the willingness to press on in the face of them. There were as many ways for this to end in pain as there were stars in the sky and hearts on Earth. But to have and to hold someone as precious as Nova?

There was no question about it. Wynn loved him, and damn the consequences and the future.

Nova tilted his chin, luminous blue eyes bright.

“Shh.” Wynn brushed Nova’s tears away with his thumb. “Please don’t cry, angel. Not now.”

“But—

“No.” Wynn took his chance. For the first time in so long, he did not shy away from something good. His lips brushed against Nova’s. Heat raced through the once dead and frozen rivers of his bloodstream. He half expected Nova to bolt away. This would be new to him, after all.

But instead, his body ebbed into Wynn’s like a ride, embracing the warmth and shelter of him.

Outside the cave, the wet, furious winds howled through bending trees. Oncoming spring seemed primed to murder the last weary remains of winter.

Neither Wynn nor Nova took any notice.

Pala cracked one eye open, watching as her old friend and his angel held one another before the fire.

No one would have seen it, but the horse smiled to herself.

_It’s about bloody time_ , she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it so far! It's almost time to conclude the story.


	8. The Gift

A spring breeze tickled the hairs on the back of Wynn’s neck. All the windows in his shop had been thrown open, allowing some degree of airflow in.

And he was in dire need of it, too. He’d been boiling thick pitch for the better part of the day. Sweat beaded his brow as he stirred the black, bubbling mixture. His upper body, bared to the heat, glistened with rivulets of perspiration. In such a state, his scars stood out in glaringly against his skin, but didn’t care.

Not anymore.

He’d delayed completing his gift for Nova for over a fortnight after returning from the valley. Together, he and his angel had spent days and nights trekking through the thawing forests. They’d swum in gurgling hot springs, and searched for pixies amongst toadstool circles at twilight.

Every night, they lay together in Wynn’s bed, warmed by the nearness of skin and surrounding sheets.

Somewhere along the way, Wynn had grown deeply ashamed of the crude wooden frame and collected frostjay feathers. Nova gave him so much, had made him so happy—how could a bespoke set of wings compare?

But what else did Wynn have to give.

Once the pitch reached optimal heat, Wynn began the process of slathering it on the frame. He dipped a thick brush into the cauldron he’d been using, then quickly spread a thick layer across the beams.

He used great care in placing each of the hundreds of feathers along the pitch. More than once, his fingers paid the price for his proximity to the heat. But Wynn had experienced worse in his lifetime.

Would Nova like it? Or would he find it lacking compared to his old wings? Once Wynn had labored for a meticulous several hours, he stood back and observed the fruits of his efforts.

Not a drop of black pitch could be seen through the dense feathers. An array of white capped pastel shades of green, blues and rosy pinks. Golden yellows joined sunset oranges, creating the illusion of a rainbow.

Wynn thought it truly stunning…for a costume. But he still felt at odds with himself. He couldn’t give Nova his real wings back. These were but a prop, something to make him feel as he once had.

He’d have to wait a little longer. Just until he felt completely comfortable with the idea of—

“There you are! You’ve been out here for hours!”

Wynn started.

Nova stood in the door of the shop.

“I wanted to go to the lake,” he said. He drew nearer, his eyes drinking in Wynn’s sweat-slicked chest. “You look and smell as though you could use it.”

“I, uh…” Wynn could think of nothing to do. The shop wasn’t big enough to attempt to hide his creation.

Nova’s gaze strayed to the workbench.

“Wynn…” He sounded as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. “What is that?”

Wynn inhaled slowly, letting the expansion of his lungs clam his doubts. He put a hand to the back of Nova’s shoulder blades, and drew him closer.

“They’re wings,” he said. “I’ve been making them for you for a long time, now. To replace the ones you lost when you came to me.”

He couldn’t say “when you fell” because Nova’s presence in his life had been too miraculous to ever consider it being a result of tragedy.

With trembling, hesitant fingers, Nova touched the iridescent wings.

“They don’t look like yours,” Wynn said.

“They’re magnificent.” He turned bright, shining eyes to Wynn. Then he threw his arms around Wynn, holding him tight as a hope.

“You’re going to get all sweaty,” Wynn said stupidly.

Nova laughed, face all but buried into Wynn’s shoulder. “I could care less.” He looked back at the wings. “How do I wear it?”

As much as he hated to leave the haven of Nova’s embrace, Wynn stepped around him. The pitch had completely dried, leaving the feathers securely affixed to the frame.

“There’s a harness on the back,” Wynn said as he hefted the impressive span up. “Here, let’s go outside. There’s more room.”

They stepped into the warmth of the fine spring evening. After the crucible of the shop, Wynn almost gasped at the sensation of clear air on his bare skin.

“Turn around,” Wynn said. “You just slip one arm through this strap, and the other here—see, there’s gaps at the top so that your stubs won’t chafe.”

From the front, it looked a little ridiculous. Wynn’s pride took a heavy hit, and he truly realized how childish this entire endeavor had been. Yes, the rainbow effect of the feathers was perfectly picturesque, but the expanse of the wings compared to Nova’s body made him looked diminished.

“It isn’t perfect,” Wynn said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yes, it is.” Nova hadn’t smiled so breathtakingly since Wynn had known him. “You made this for me, Wynn. That makes it…” His voice died away.

Wynn didn’t need to inquire. He’d felt it, too: a strange stirring in the air; and that overwhelming smell of candle wax and holy censure. 

Dust and leaves and stray flower petals began to swirl around Nova. Wynn’s heart threatened to burst from his ribs. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, bathing Nova in white.

Wynn shielded his eyes, and sent a terrified plea to Heaven. He knew what was happening, and it terrified him as much as it enraged him.

_Please_ , he thought. _Please don’t take him from me_.

The light dimmed. The dust settled. And Nova stood before Wynn, his wings spread for the first time. Only, they weren’t his original wings, with feathers as dusky and dark as ink. Nor were they the crude wings Wynn had scraped together. 

These were new. They were whiter than a swan’s wing; darts of color struck them through from the bottom, glowing in all colors of the rainbow.

Nova looked from one wing to the other, his face slack with disbelief. His wings flexed ever so slightly, and Wynn tensed, afraid that his angel would take flight.

But Nova didn’t alight for the sky. He ran to Wynn, and tackled him to the ground. His lips crashed over Wynn’s, searing him to the very marrow.

“Does—this—mean—you’re—staying,” Wynn gasped between kisses.

Nova sat up straight, both legs astride Wynn’s hips.

“What else would I do?” He laughed. “It wasn’t Heaven that gave me these wings, Wynn. Not entirely.” Once more the Technicolor appendages flexed. Really, they looked less like the feathers of a frostjay and more akin to the luminous lights of an irdrake.

“I don’t understand.”

“Kindness, Wynn.” Nova traced a finger along Wynn’s jaw. “Didn’t I tell you? Kindness is magic. You gave me this gift; and it had enough power to transform me completely.”

Nova sighed, his hands coming to rest at a faded scar on Wynn’s rib cage. “I don’t think I can repay you enough. I can heal the scars—or your nose and eye, if you’ll let me, but—

Wynn shook his head. Sitting up, he slipped his arms around Nova’s waist.

“You don’t have to give me anything,” he said. “Just say that you’ll stay with me.”

Nova pressed his forehead against Wynn’s. “There isn’t a place on Earth or anywhere else I’d rather be than beside you, Wynn.”

They stood, the warmth of Nova’s wings brushing Wynn’s skin.

“I’d still like to see the lake,” Nova said.

“Of course.”

A moment later, the ground disappeared out from beneath them. Wynn stared down from the safety of Nova’s arms.

“These wings aren’t just for show,” Nova said. Below them, the cabin and all its outlying buildings looked like doll’s houses.

“Fly with me?” Nova asked, his wings beating in steady beat with Wynn’s heart.

“Yes. Anywhere with you.”

And, together, they flew over the mountain forests, the crystalline lakes, and towards the bright star of their future together.


	9. The End

Dean closed the book as quietly as he could. His voice had gone raspy from hours of reading, but he didn’t regret a syllable.

The blonde boy curled underneath his Lord of the Rings bedspread had finally fallen asleep, head cocked to the side of his pillow. Dean leaned forward, the mattress shifting beneath him.

He placed a gentle kiss on the boy’s forehead, smoothing his flaxen hair away. 

“Goodnight, Jack,” Dean whispered. “Love you, buddy.” 

He stood, and turned to leave.

The door to his son’s bedroom was open. Castiel stood in the frame, dressed for bed, his arms folded.

“How long were you standing there?” Dean asked.

“Long enough.” Cas put an arm around Dean’s shoulder. Together, they watched their son—their own little miracle—as he slept.

“I didn’t think he’d like it,” Dean said, waving the hardcover book. “Not enough action for him.”

“There’s value in a love story.” Cas gave Dean a look that spoke volumes—how proud he was of Dean’s role in raising their child; how moved he’d been by Dean wiring that little book in the first place.

Dean’s head lolled onto Cas’s shoulder. “Good thing he didn’t cotton onto it being about his dads.”

“Give it time.” 

“Don’t say that. I like him this way.”

“Maybe that’s what your next book can be about: the prince who stayed seven years old forever.”

“Nah. I’m thinking of something adult. Sexy times with angels.”

Jack grunted in his sleep, and rolled to his side. Dean and Cas both went quiet, not wanting to rouse their little boy from slumber.

After a moment, Dean said, “I’m gonna hit the shower. You coming, _Nova_?”

“In a minute, _Wynn_.”

Dean chuckled, and kissed his husband on the cheek. “I adore you.”

“Right back at ya, babe.”

Still chuckling, Dean headed down the hall.

Cas stood a moment longer, watching Jack. He hoped that his son’s dreams were pleasant—filled with the same warmth and wonder of Dean’s latest book. Most of all, he hoped Jack knew how much he was loved; not only by his dads, but by all those who knew him.

With a smile, Cas closed the door behind him, and left his little boy to his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this little story.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you're enjoying it so far! Stay tuned for more.


End file.
